


Thor: The Final Ragnarok

by TheLordStark



Series: Thor: The Final Ragnarok [1]
Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-01-27 09:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12578444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordStark/pseuds/TheLordStark
Summary: Asgard has died and been reborn before. It never comes back the same but it always survives. Until the dying curse of a mad king seals the fate of the Nine Realms to be destroyed and never again be reborn. Time is running out to prevent the true Twilight of the Gods and all other beings.





	1. Malekith

There is a point beyond the nine realms, hidden in the darkness. It is at the exact midpoint between two black holes, formed at the same time from the deaths of the twin stars of a long-forgotten planet. The event horizons were so close together that for any cosmic explorer to try and reach this place would be near suicide. If they somehow succeeded, to try and leave would be certain death. The very existence of this scientific phenomena should of course be impossible, were it not for the asteroid frozen in time and space between them. From the exact point this asteroid was stuck at, a mystical force repelled all outside interference with such strength, it held everything at this one point in the universe steady in an immense, chaotic balance. Hemidall could not see into this location. Thanos would not dare penetrate its depths. Even Uatu the Watcher would not try and approach. Despite all this, there was one occupant of this space, for whom the space had been named; Fort Malekheim.

Inside the hollow shell of the asteroid, Malekith the Accursed stood up for the first time in some hours, or possibly some millennia. It was hard to tell, since time worked differently in this forsaken place. The torn red hem of his armour infused robes brushed silently against the ground as he rose. He didn’t feel as if he had been imprisoned here that long, yet when he looked at his blueish grey hands he could see wrinkles and feel his bones more clearly against his skin. Elves did not normally age, so long as they could feed or else keep themselves in stasis sleep until food became available. It was only now that he knew true hunger his body had begun to decay, which was not an altogether pleasant experience, Malekith decided. He had lived most of his exceptionally long adult life without any visible signs of such weakness. A life so long he was one of the few remaining beings who remembered when the Universe was still young and dark matter prevailed. It had been his races ultimate prosperity, as it was both what the dark elves to feast on and gave them the space to practice their magical craft in. 

This paradise was the basis of Malektiths earliest memories, up until the time he reached manhood. As peaceful a time as that had been, he had not known true satisfaction until the until the universe had conceived more inhabitable planets and different lifeforms had become plentiful. Though some of his kind bemoaned the pollution of atmospheres and celestial bodies, he personally found that his food tasted all the more tender when it was hard won by conquest and bloodshed. Not to mention the blood rituals and soul cleansing sacrifices that had fueled his magical power to the point he had easily overthrown the former king of Svartalfheim and taken the throne of the Dark Elves for himself.  
A few times since then the whole race had resigned themselves to stasis sleep for a few millennia or so, in the hope that they would awaken to a universe once again void of other life. But Malekith refused to sleep away his life when he could find new ways to season his appetites and eventually killed an advisor who grew too insistent. To underline his point, he followed this act by summoning Algrim, his most powerful general. Once he had placed an ancient spell on Algrim to transform him into a Kursed demon, he stood unopposed, with a near invulnerable but mindless slave at his side. His own people followed him through fear instead of love but in Malekiths white, pupil-less eyes, what greater reward could a king give his people than all the lands and all the food they could ever wish for? With the entire realm of Svartalfheim under his thumb, it was clear that he could easily seize control of the neighbouring realm of Alfheim, convert any light elves who would pledge allegiance into dark elves with his powers before purging the rest, then go on to conquer the remaining seven realms and all who would dwell within them.

Of course, that golden haired bastard of Asgard had intervened as soon as he had set foot on the marble white shores of the Alfheim. After a mighty clash, Thor Odinson succeeded in splitting Algrims mindless head open with a lightning charged swing of his legendary hammer Mjolnir, leaving the Asgardian prince bruised and bloodied but nonetheless victorious. He could have been killed there and then, all it would take was a few whispered words and the excretion of some dark matter and Thor’s own shadow would have smothered him. But to Malekiths shock, whilst he prepared that very spell, he found himself bound in chains of cold iron. The surprise attack came not from the light elves but by the treacherous hands and enchantments of his own people, long sick of his warmongering and hateful ways. The substance completely negated his sorcerous abilities and left him as powerless as a mere human of Midgard. Against his furious protests, the dark elves handed him over to the enemy, renouncing his kingship over them and offering his life in exchange for peace! For all his contempt for the weakness infecting his own lads, Malekith had never imagined they would stoop so low as to bargain with their natural enemies, let alone use his life for that purpose!

Nonetheless, the former king no longer felt anger as he surveyed his prison. Inside the hollowed asteroid was no cavern but a tomb that had been grown instead of built. It was a flat room with a floor that appeared to be made of wooden boards, though instead of laying in flat lines they curved inward to form a spiral. At the very centre was a small stone basin, magically fixed in place, filled with a black liquid. There was enough to drink for sustenance and it always refilled over time, but only enough to keep the prisoner alive. There were no apparent walls or ceiling, just a circle of dim light about twenty feet in diameter with darkness beyond. Malekith had walked into the darkness before. Fifty paces in one direction, a million paces in the other. In each instance, he turned around to find himself no more than twenty paces from the basin. This was the light elves idea of mercy, to be banished to this point to eternally rot away without dying, forgotten by all. He doubted if many of his own kind had lived long enough to realise the cruel karma of having sent him here, by combining the strongest dark and light elvish spells to teleport him. For it was he who had created this place, planting time delayed dark technology in the cores of the twin stars, which eventually sped their decay until they turned into gravity wells that consumed the surrounding solar system. Just as all solar systems would have been consumed until only the blessed darkness remained, had the cowardly elves not surrendered their pride and their leader.

But Malekith would not live forever in this nightmare. He may have no way to escape nor any hope of rescue. The iron chains that had bound him and burned him as his own kind betrayed him had been ground into powder so fine that they floated in the air around him, leaving him without his magic. But what they had not counted on was that Malekith the Accursed would never be broken. He still had the greatest asset he had ever possessed. And that was the force of sheer, furious pettiness. The thought of not getting the last laugh had driven him for all the time he had been down here, however long it was. He would not allow any peace for the elves, whether they stabbed their leader in the back from the shadows of Svartalfheim or bathed in the light like the degenerates of Alfheim. Nor could he ever allow the God of Thunder to think he had secured victory over a being like himself. It could have taken him a million years, but he had no shortage of them. With infinite patience, he had felt his way through the air until the invisible particles of iron had accumulated on his body. With his hands he had moved around, groping blindly until, by chance, he had pushed a few minuscule pieces of iron into a pile, just big enough to stick to the tip of his thumb. Then, as another few million years went by in the course of a few hours, he had a pile on the opposite thumb, which he mixed in with the first pile. This agonisingly slow process continued until he had accumulated enough to form the particles into a proper shape. 

Eventually, he smiled a demented smile, as he held before him a crude, curved blade, as long as his arm. As it had no handle it sliced his hand open to hold it and the cold iron burned his flesh to the touch. Malekith no longer cared, pain being the only companion he had ever wished for. What difference was it if it was his own pain, rather than that of a thousand lesser beings? He smeared his bloodied hand over the wooden ground, cutting it open again as necessary until he had drawn a circle of what primitive beings would have called runes. More educated primitive beings might say equations. Any worthwhile elf would recognise them as something far worse. The Svarten, a series of incantations that would unleash his pure malicious will at any point in the universe. The sheer power of the spells they would unleash would kill any ordinary being long before the ritual was complete. Malekith, no ordinary being, would never survive it himself. But even in his weakened state, with only enough particles of iron ripped from the air to allow him space to breath, he could complete it. He began whispering to his blood marks, feeling the energy creep towards him, enveloping him. The remaining iron in the air resisted it as if it knew what he was summoning. He ignored the pain and gestured with his arms. The dim light of the tomb grew brighter, not revealing anything hidden in the surrounding darkness but brightening the circle until it was near blinding. It was time.

Malekith took hold of the iron blade with both hands, relishing the fresh pain as he dipped the tip of it in the basin of liquid dark matter. He then raised it above his head, the tip pointing out before him. He would be truly accursed, despised and destroyed for this, instead of returning to his childhood of peaceful feasting as a small elf in the beautiful twilight of existence. But he would never be forgotten. It would be legacy like no other, which was all that he could ever dream of. With a quiet but fierce cackle, the last king of the dark elves said the final words of the ritual, promising a great sacrifice, before plunging the darkness infused iron sword into his own heart.

Malekith’s body evaporated into the shadows. And so began the final Ragnarok.


	2. The Beginning of the End

Odin is dead.< /p> This in and of itself was not surprising. For all his immense power, he had been near death many times before. He needed to rest for forty nights after his first, epic clash with Surtur, lord of the Fire Giants in Muspelheim. He had nearly been eaten in the process of binding the Fenris Wolf in the chains forged by dwarves and blessed by the Vanir of Vanaheim. He had braved the descent into the netherworlds of Hel and returned with treasures and curses that were hard to tell apart. He had hung himself from the roots of Yggdrasil the world-tree for nine nights, with a spear embedded in his side and two ravens circling him, awaiting their meal, until he had seen the truth of magic and understood the true powers in the universe. And when he saw this, he pulled the spear loose and used the tip to cut himself down. He spoke a command, to be given an audience with Huginn and Muninn. The two ravens at once roosted before him to listen. He told them that he offered himself as sacrifice, in return for the privilege of knowledge. The ravens accepted and Huginn plucked his eye from its socket, to be offered up somewhere unknown. As soon as it was gone, Odin, near enough a corpse and in agony beyond compare, staggered home to Asgard. His wounds were tended to, a majestic eye patch was fitted and the people rejoiced that their leader had proven himself the bravest and mightiest of all, now augmented with the knowledge to match.  
When he returned to his chambers that night, his wife Frigga immediately asked why he ever did such a stupid thing.

In truth, as Odin explained to her, he had never really considered that his eye would be gone for good. With all the knowledge and magic that the sacrifice granted, he had guessed that there may be a way, one day, to see the eye returned to his head. Now he had completed this process, he knew for a fact that it was possible. Now of course, having one, all-seeing eye and near infinite possibilities on what to do next, he realised that it wasn’t actually that important to him to have his eye back. There were far greater uses for his magic. Frigga replied that she actually wanted to know why he would abandon his kingdom for nine days just to embark on a mission of such vanity. As was so often the case, she alone gave the All-Father pause for thought. His eventual reply even bordered on an admission that he may not have been entirely in the right in this instance.

‘Hear my reason, but reason not my fear:  
If ever I leave my gilded post, the crown awaits my queen should I be lost.’ His wife retorted:  
‘Shall I lose thee then husband? Lest I suit it better,  
The crown that you so idly take for granted.’  
They laughed at that and soon it was forgotten that Odin had never before been so close to death.

A few thousand years later, in the very same chambers, Frigga stood over the corpse of her husband. They had not lain in the bed the night before. They had sat on the balcony with some grapes and wine and talked quietly. It was idle chatter, the simple pleasure of gossip about the kingdom, the latest news, how they had changed, how things had stayed the same. Frigga must have fallen asleep at some point as she awoke on the same balcony in a bed of thorn-less roses. No doubt her husband had grown them for her overnight whilst he retreated back inside. Now he lay there in his full regalia, golden battle armour and silver cape included. His finest eyepatch was in place, with a detailed and accurate carving of his own eye in substitute for the real thing. Many thought it looked intimidating on him, though privately both Odin a Frigga thought it looked a bit funny on him. His silver hair and long beard were freshly combed and in place. He didn’t look any different than he had in life. After all, he had always had the air not of a being, but a monument, or an ornament, or a fact.

In a way, she wasn’t surprised. He had been secluding himself as of late, taking longer walks alone, or spending less time at public functions and revels, or conversing too much with the ravens Huginn and Muninn. A certain amount of isolation was understood to be the fate of any sufficiently powerful being but Frigga knew her husband had something else plaguing his mind. She loathed to think that he knew his own death was imminent and had not thought to so much a hint it to her. Yet when she saw him and thought of the man and god she loved, it was simply inconceivable to think he had not known the exact time and circumstances of his death.

She wanted to hate him. As the now-acting queen, she did hate her predecessor for leaving her in charge so ungraciously, in such a less-than regal manner. As a widow she knew more anger and grief at once than she could put to words. If it was not unbecoming of a monarch she would have cut the crown in two and cast it off the edge of the nine realms, before locking herself away so no one could see her tears.

It was that thought that triggered something else. A profound and terrible realisation that she wasn’t crying. Without anyone to see her she should be mourning for her husband. She couldn’t have prevented the tears from coming loose even if she had wanted to, but the tears she felt inside would not come. They were being held back by something. The only thing that could hold back the emotions of a god.

‘It is the darkest magic,’ she thought to herself. ‘Heimdall!’ She bellowed aloud. ‘Pray Sif and the Warriors Three attend!’

Within the hour, Frigga stood in the throne room. It was 1000 square feet, the high ceiling held up by rows and rows of spire-like columns, each one with paintings winding up the in spirals, constantly in motion to show the flow of time and the different eras of Asgard. A conspicuously large number of these paintings involved very bloody battles. Almost comically unable to make use of the space, Lady Sif, Volstagg the Voluminous, Fandrall the Dashing, Hogun the Grim and Heimdall the Gatekeeper gathered in front of Frigga at the far end, just in front of the throne.

‘Your Majesty, how may we be of service this fine day?’ Fandrall enquired, bowing deeply.

‘The king is dead,’ Frigga replied. Fandrall bolted upright, looking foolishly appalled.

‘Give lie to this, I beseech your Majesty!’ bellowed Volstagg. Hogun did not comment but bowed his head and closed his eyes.

‘How can this be, my queen?’ asked Sif. She was as shocked as her companions but did her best not to let it show.

‘Foulest magic. Of a curse so wicked,  
That all grief in our hearts has died with him.  
Who amongst us shall weep for Odin?  
Come, weep for your King!’

Frigga’s collected voice rose to shout. Her wrath, whilst not so dangerous as her husbands, was more terrible to behold. Sif nearly backed away but stood her ground and tried to let her emotion out. Volstagg, who had never been good at surprising his emotions, made some gasping noises but did not cry. Fandrall looked mournful but did not cry. Hogun stayed in his downtrodden pose. Sif realised she was ready to cry for her late king. Instead, nothing happened./p>  
‘Tears shall not come,’ spoke Heimdall. All turned to see the helm of his armour, hiding his face save for his golden, near-omniscient eyes. ‘None shall ever weep for Odin.’

‘Why have our tears been cursed?’ asked Sif ‘Who could be cruel as to rob us of our right to mourn? Tell me and they shall mourn on the end my sword!’  
‘Malekith,’ Heimdall replied.

‘Impossible!’ said Fandrall. ‘The elves imprisoned him, he was left locked away helpless, no more than the cad deserved! His escape is unthinkable!’

‘He is dead,’ said Heimdall. ‘A suicide curse. The dark elves discovered this.’

’Tis monstrous depravity,’ Volstagg said shakily, still struggling with his inability to weep for Odin. Hogun, who had stood still and listened, spoke one word: ‘Ragnarok.’ This gave the whole room pause.

‘Why must you say that Hogun? Sif turned on him, not angry but hurt. ‘That could be centuries away. We shall find the way to break the curse before then. The kingdom will weep for our King and he shall stand gloriously in Valhalla. Heimdall,’ she spoke to the guardian. ‘Look as far to the signs as you can. From all the markers, when is your best estimate as to when Ragnarok begins?

‘Six days,’ spoke Heimdall. And all were quiet. Eventually, Fandrall spoke up.

‘Surely, friend, you are mistaken? That cannot be…’

‘Six days,’ Heimdall repeated. ‘Make no mistake. The signs are clear as could be.’

He did not elaborate on this. He could have detailed the fires of Muspelheim flickering away to mere embers that morning before reigniting with the force of exploding suns, to begin forging implements of war on a planetary scale. Or the debate that raged between in Alfheim between the Cardinals of the Light Elves and the ambassadors of the Dark Elves over what had happened to the former king Malekith and if it had transpired from incompetence or assistance. Or that the glaciers of Jotunheim were begging to melt and the frozen oceans were beginning to boil as the Frost Giants felt the effects first. Or that the depths of Hel were shifting and fermenting more bloody pits in anticipation of all those who were going to die before the six days had even ended. Instead, Heimdall chose to let the weight of his words sink in to those who must know, or at least strongly suspect the consequences.

‘Hear me,’ said Frigga. ‘my friends first and subjects second,  
If time be our foe, it shall rue its folly!  
Brave Fandrall, impede the final demise  
Hence, into the depths of Muspelheim.  
Volstagg, upon your honour must you ride  
To Hel, with reason and cheer to impart.  
Hogun, grim but ever in spirits true  
Take consul with the warlike elves.  
Sheath thy blade Sif, to Midgard. Wherefore?  
Thou must deliver our prodigal Thor.  
With all haste!’

And so the warriors were set in their duty. Three longboats were hastily readied for their respective missions to confront the giants in Muspelheim, reason with both the dark and light elves before another war broke out and to seek an audience with Hela, the goddess of Hel. Fandrall’s ship discarded all unnecessary irons and bombardment cannons and instead armed itself with water and sand. Hogun took no crew or weapons, save his two finest daggers and a small bag of grenades that would hopefully remain untouched, instead directing the ship through voice command and then turning the steering wheel to auto-captain position. Volstagg was trusted with riches from the treasure vaults to give as bribes for safe passage, as well as several dozen vats of finest mead for his constitution. In the hope of discovering his courage, he finished two of them before the ship had left the shores of Asgard.

Once the warriors had made their way from the room to depart, Sif stood patiently, looking at Frigga.

‘My queen, none of us have seen Thor in many a moon. Though the search shall be of no hardship, the task of recruitment in this mission is another matter entirely. Even if one were to consider our history…’

‘Well have I considered, considered, but mark me, Sif,  
We must surely all die, without Mjolnir  
Igniting the stars and our skies once more.’  
‘My queen…’ Sif decided against arguing, mindful she was not only speaking to her queen but a widow. ‘Upon my life, Thor shall lead the charge against our extinction. Dear Heimdall, shall you guide me to his location?’

‘At once,’ said Heimdall. ‘By your leave, my queen.’

Once he and Sif had left, Frigga set herself down upon the throne. The damn thing was so straight and sleek and hard it was a pain to sit upon. Odin had inherited it from his father Bor, who always had avaricious tastes for gold, women and conquests. Though he had thankfully not inherited the extent of his father’s greed Odin was a stubborn traditionalist and never had any aspect of the throne room replaced.

Frigga resented everything the throne represented. The bloodshed of Asgard’s past, the ludicrous decadence of its present, the many disagreements she had had with Odin and the fact that she now ruled the kingdom. She had never wanted this, regardless of the jibes she had occasionally shared with Odin. But now, with her eyes cursed to be dry by magic and her face cursed to be stoic by duty, the only way she had left to mourn him was to be the queen her kingdom needed. If worst came to worst, she need only manage that for six days.

She heard the ravens caw before they landed on each of her shoulders.

‘We heard Odin died,’ Huginn told her.

‘Condolences your majesty. Especially if he were as good a husband as he were a king,’ added Muninn in an identical, cackle-like voice.

‘Away, you vultures that appear as crows,’ Frigga wearily replied.

‘As our new majesty commands,’ said Muninn. ‘We’ll be back soon.’

‘This will be quite the Ragnarok. Better than the last two for sure,’ Huginn added. With mocking caws, they flew away. Frigga was left on the throne alone.

 

On the other side of the cosmos was the realm of Muspelheim. At the apex of this realm was the planet Muspel, a world of crust and magma on the surface and cavernous cities underground. These were the lairs of the fire giants, the children of sulphur and coals. It was these creatures who inhabited the underground realms and consumed the minerals and ore they found in the rocks. The riches of Muspel could have made them very lucrative galactic traders but, like most giants, they were as stupid as they were mighty. This made them poor social creatures but dangerous warmongers. In their own realm, after all, the heat and minerals meant they were never short of new soldiers, so they had reigned supreme in Muspelheim as long as any could remember. What they lacked as a society, they had made up for with slaves and prison camps. Although the planet Muspel had about ten prisoners for every one giant, there had only been two serious attempts at a revolt in the entire, million year-reign of the current Fire Lord, both of which had only lasted until the Lord himself intervened. He did not like directly getting involved in the planets affairs often but today was one more day he was fated to do so.

The lesser Fire Lords had gathered in the Core Temple. So named not only because it was the official chamber of the main Fire Lords but because down the centre of the domed room was a narrow but deep chasm that led all the way down to the core of the planet. The higher giants gathered on the opposing sides of this chasm yet still spoke in whispers that day as they felt the fires dying around them. For such an impossibility to occur could only mean that Ragnarok was imminent. There was an air of excitement, replaced by fear as they eventually realised they would all die unless they could keep the fires burning for a little longer. The excitement came back when the order was issued – ‘Awaken Surtur.’

Above the deepest chasm of Muspel, a huge room contained six immense cauldrons in a circle, around a drain at the bottom that led to the throne room below. These cauldrons were always kept alight and bubbling, day in and out for all time and were habitually fed the most precious stones and minerals to keep them full of the richest lava in the universe. The order was given and the watching giants pushed to turn the gears and pistons of the room. All the cauldrons tipped into the drain and were emptied of the golden liquid with not a drop wasted. The lava was siphoned down the drain through the pipes below that led into the walls of the Core Temple.

The lava was deposited into a carving in the wall that looked like a huge, demonic, hollow statue. 10 times taller than any of the giants, carved with bared fangs, curved horns pointing up and outwards from the forehead and every detail of the musculature accentuated to perfection, it was a sight to behold. Through gaps in the joints and eyes the liquid was visible and it began to glow red with the heat. The liquid somehow did not spill through these gaps, nor did the rock melt even as it shone like a star – instead it began to gently shake, then flex its limbs, until it at last the entire thing stepped out of the wall and stood over the lesser lords of the fire giants.

‘WHY AM I AWAKEND?’ Surtur spoke in a deep, rumbling voice as only a sentient pool of mineral inside a 300-foot tall stone avatar could speak.

‘My lord, it shall soon be time for Ragnarok,’ replied one of the giants, with customary bluntness.

‘We shall prepare the forges to arm everyone as soon as we can,’ said another. ‘But the planet is dying. We must reignite first or we will all be dead before Ragnarok begins.’

‘I AM HUNGRY.’ Surtur stated this not as a request. He did not request, only demand. At once three giants strained to lift a goblet that was as big as any one of them. Surtur stopped to reach it and in one gulp drank the mixture of molten rock and prisoners blood inside.

‘OUR FOOD IS AS DISGUSTING AS IT EVER WAS,’ he announced. Then he marched over to the chasm in front of him. Looking so far down, he could see the core of the planet. It was indeed straining. Surtur jammed his fingers into the chest of his rocky avatar and ripped it open, letting the core liquid inside drip down onto the core. It was perfectly apparent when the connection happened. The heat very obviously swelled around the room and the vibrations of volcanic eruptions on the surface could be felt all the way down there. Surtur pushed the pectorals back together when about a quarter of his own body had been drained. He could feel himself, coursing through Muspel like a burrowing worm, burning and being crushed under pressure and being distributed. It would eventually feed the creation red gems and black metals of the planet, which would be melted down and returned to the cauldrons, so he would eventually regain his sustenance, no matter how much of a toll the process took on him.

‘THAT SHALL SUFFICE FOR OUR NEEDS UNTIL RAGNAROK,’ said Surtur. ‘BUT WHAT OF MY NEEDS? WHERE IS MY SWORD, TWILIGHT?’

‘It has not been forged, Lord Surtur,’ said a giant, ‘How should it be created for you?’

‘MAKE IT THE SIZE OF THIS BODY. IT MUST BE FORGED THAT ALL WHO LOOK UPON IT SHALL KNOW DREAD,’ said Surtur. ‘THE NEIGHBOURING SOLAR SYSTEM. WHAT IS THE POPULATION?’

‘Sixty billion, across three habitable planets and two large asteroids,’ the same giant replied.

‘THE LIVES OF SIXTY BILLION SHALL DO. DETONATE THE STAR AND CHANNEL THE HEAT AND LIFE FORCE INTO MY PRIVATE BLACKSMITH’S QUARTERS. I SHALL REST NOW. AWAKEN ME WHEN MY SWORD IS READY.’

If any present were uncomfortable with killing so many, not even they were fool enough to let it show before Surtur. They bowed at once and retreated. The word would be put out in minutes for all slaves with any knowledge of magic to be assembled and brought before them, as every last one of their powers would be soon be needed. Surtur retreated back to the wall of the ceremonial room and walked backwards in the gap, which fit his avatar perfectly. Suction force from the pipes removed the remaining liquid of his body and transported it to back up, for his personal slaves to pour back into the cauldron he called his bedchambers. The rest would be needed, for Ragnarok could not conclude until Surtur drove Twilight into the core of Asgard and saw all the remaining gods burn to death on his blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long wait on this update. In keeping with the highly stylised speech of the original comics I was going to have all the characters speak in iambic pentameter - Shakespeare makes it look so easy! I eventually decided to show generation distinction with language, so older Asgardians speak like Shakespearean characters whilst the younger ones talk formally but more like modern English speakers.


End file.
